I touch my fingers to the keys of my bassoon and envision a breathtaking performance, the kind I would marvel at as a child through my parent’s outdated TV set. The kind that erupted into standing ovations and showers of roses.
I take in a breath.
The bassoon’s sultry tones play in my head, which usher in the memory of autumns past—seasons of free backpacks and school supplies. I would often sit at the worn down wooden park benches clutching my mother’s hand, praying that I would receive a 24-pack of crayons, shades beyond the basic blue and red.
There was one particular fall that stood out from the rest. It was a new place, vastly different from the elementary school I had grown used to. We were greeted and given the option to explore the variety of instruments, ranging from the cool, metallic flute to the illustrious gold plated brass. When it came time to choose our instrument for the next three years, I carefully wrote down my decisions.
Clarinet. Bass. Flute. (And only because it was the only other instrument on which I could conjure up a sound.)
I am struck with disappointment when the teacher announces “Jordi: flute”. But I learned to live with playing the flute. Before long, I was obsessed. Long school days often ended with more practice for me. I couldn’t stop playing. I often volunteered when asked to share any progress we had made in learning our instrument. Soon enough, I was enraptured by the bassoon, too.
Playing such an instrument however, came with an even larger price tag than playing the flute. At such an affluent middle school, my friends never complained about money. And to fit in, I tried to do the same.
As much as I tried to ignore the mounting price of my musical endeavors, arguments arose between my mother and I, who was stuck with a bill she couldn’t afford and for a passion she didn’t necessarily believe in. Being low-income made it increasingly difficult to keep up with payments for necessities such as instrument maintenance, rental fees, and lessons—additional costs that jeopardized my pursuit of music. As the son of immigrant parents, I was told to prioritize school work over music—always. When the arguments reached crescendos of their own, I spat out comments about how I was embarrassed to be poor, how nobody else at school worried about financing their music careers. Acrid remarks about how I was destined to attend a “drug infested,” “ghetto,” “violent” school—a low-income school—filled the ever-increasing void between my mother and I.
It wasn’t until high school that I realized I was not alone in my endeavors—that there were students like me who faced similar barriers. I realized that the disparity in resources—not only for the arts, but for low-income students to pursue the arts—stemmed from a greater need for economic equality and for an increased representation of minorities within the music field.
My experience with music forced me to face the numerous barriers that plague low-income students. Music is often deemed “universal” by many who partake in it. And yet, it remains one of the most elusive pursuits, saved for only the most privileged. The journey I have taken to find my love for music and to partake in it is a both a testament to and a revolt against the exclusive nature of music education.
I look out at the crowd with bassoon in hand and find solace in my mother’s forgiving eyes.
I breathe out and play.